University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The emissary of the Mystic Brotherhood, which
had just conferred the honors of its membership on
one who so richly deserved them, though pursuing
his labours with the rigid directness of an ordinary
business habit, and confining himself thereto, with
a degree of strictness and method not common to the
wicked, was yet, by no means a niggard in his communications.
He unfolded much of the history of
that dangerous confederacy, which it is not thought
necessary to deliver here; and his hearer became
gradually and fully informed of the extent of its resources
and ramifications. Yet these gave him but
little satisfaction. He found himself one of a clan
numbering many hundred persons, having the
means of procuring wealth, which had been limited

to him heretofore simply because of his singleness,
and not because of any better principle which he
possessed; and yet he shuddered to find himself in
such a connection. The very extensiveness of the
association, confounded his judgment, and filled him
with terrors. He was one of those petty villains
who rely upon cunning and trick, rather than audacity
and strength, to prosecute their purposes; and
while the greater number of the clan found their
chief security in a unity of purpose and a concentration
of numbers, which, in the end, enabled them
for a season, to defy, and almost overthrow the laws
of society, he regarded this very circumstance as
that, which, above all others, must greatly contribute
to the risk and dangers of detection. The glowing
accounts of his companion, which described their
successes—their profitable murders, fearless burglaries,
and a thousand minor offences, such as negro,
horse stealing, and petty thefts—only served to
enlarge the vision with which he beheld his fears;
and, dull and wretched, he returned with his guest
to the miserable hovel, now become doubly so since
his most humiliating enlightenment, and the formation
of his new ties. His wife and daughter, meanwhile,
had retired for the night; but the woman did
not sleep. She was filled with apprehensions for
her husband, scarcely less imposing than those
which troubled him for himself; yet little did she
dream how completely he was in the thrall of that
power from which her own severe and fruitless virtues
had been utterly unable at all times to restrain
him. Her wildest fear never imagined a bond so
terrible as that which had been imposed upon him
in the last half hour.

“Whenever you want to lie down, stranger, you
can do so. There's your blanket. I'm sorry there's
no better for you.” It was with difficulty that Pickett
brought himself to utter these common words of
courtesy.

“Good enough,” said the other—“I'll take it a
little closer by the fire; and, if you have no objection,
I'll throw a stick or two on. I've slept in a better
bed, it's true, but I'll be satisfied if I never sleep in
a worse.”

The hesitating utterance of her husband, and the
cool and ready reply of their guest, did not escape
the keen hearing of the woman. Pickett muttered
something in answer to this speech, and then threw
himself, without undressing, upon the bed. The
other followed the example, and, in a few moments,
his form, stretched at length before the fire place,
lay as quietly as if he were already wrapped in the
deepest slumbers. This appearance, was, however,
deceptive. The emissary had not yet fulfilled all
his duties; and he studiously maintained himself in
watchfulness, the better to effect his objects. Believing

him to be asleep, however, the anxieties of
Pickett's wife, prompted her, after awhile, to speak
to her miserable husband, with whom, as yet, she
had had no opportunity of private speech; but her
whispered accents, were checked by the apprehensive
criminal on the first instant of their utterance.
With a quick and nervous gripe, he grasped her arm
in silence, and, in this manner, without a word, put
a stop to her inquiries. In silence, thus, and yet
with equal watchfulness, did the three remain, for
the space of two goodly hours. The night was advancing,
and Pickett began to hope that John Hurdis
would fail to keep his promise; but the hope had
not well been formed in his mind, before he heard
the signal agreed upon between them—three hoots
and a bark—and in a cold agony that found in every
movement a pitfall, and an enemy in every bush,
he prepared to rise and go forth to his employer.

“Where would you go?” demanded the woman
in a hurried whisper, which would not be repressed,
and she grasped his arm as she spoke. She, too,
had heard the signal, and readily divined its import
when she saw her husband preparing to leave her.

“Nowhere—what's the matter—lie still; and
don't be foolish,” was his reply, uttered also in a
whisper, while, with some violence, he disengaged
his arm from her grasp. She would have still detained
him.

“Oh, Ben!” was all she said, and the still whispered
accents, went through him with a warning
emphasis, that well reminded him of that good
counsel, which he had before rejected; and which
he bitterly cursed himself for not having followed.

“She was right,” he muttered to his own heart.
“She was right—had I listened to what she said, and
let John Hurdis do his own dirty work, I would
have had no such trouble. But—it's too late now—
too late. I must now get through it as I may.”

He rose, and silently opening the door, disappeared
in the night. He had scarcely done so, when the
emissary prepared to follow him. The wife saw
the movement with terror, and coughing aloud, endeavoured,
in this way, to convince the stranger, that
she was wakeful like himself; but her effort to discourage
him from going forth proved fruitless—
he gave her no heed, and she beheld him, with fear
and trembling, depart almost instantly after her husband.
She could lie in bed no longer; but rising,
hurried to the door, which she again opened, and
gazed anxiously out upon the dim and speechless
trees of the neighbouring forests, with eyes that
seemed to penetrate into the very dimmest of their
recesses. She looked without profit. She saw nothing.
The forms of both her husband and his guest
were no where visible. Should she pursue them?
This was at once her thought, but she dismissed it

as idle, a moment after. Shivering with cold, and
under the nameless terrors in her apprehension, she
re-entered the hovel, and closed the entrance.

“God be with me,” she cried, sinking on her
knees, beside the miserable pallet, where she had
passed so many sleepless nights.—“God be with me,
and with him. We have need of thee, Oh, God—
both of us have need of thee. Strengthen me, oh,
God, and save him from his enemies.—The hand of
the tempter is upon him—is upon him, even now.—
I have striven with him, and I plead with him in
vain. Thou only, Blessed Father—Thou, only, who
art in heaven, and art all merciful on earth—thou
only canst save him. He is weak, and yielding
where he should be strong, timid when he should
be bold, and bold only, where it is virtue to be fearful.
Strengthen him, when he is weak, and let him
be weak where he would be wicked. Cut him not
off in thy wrath, but spare him to me—to this poor
child—to himself. He is not fit to perish. Protect
him!—He's—What is this—who? Is it you Jane? Is
it you, my poor child?”

The idiot girl had crawled to her, unseen, during
her brief, but energetic apostrophe to the Eternal,
and with a simpering, half-sobbing accent, testified
her surprise at the unwonted vehemence and seeming
unseasonableness of her mother's prayers. With increasing
energy of action, the woman clasped the

girl around the waist—and dragged her down upon
the floor beside her.

“Put up your hands, Jane!” was her exclamation
—“put up your hands with me! pray—pray with
me. Pray to God, to deliver us from evil—your
father from evil—from his own, and the evil deeds
of other men—speak out child, speak fast, and pray
—pray!”

“Our father who art in heaven!” The child went
on with the usual adjuration which had been a possession
of mere memory from her infancy; while the
mother, with uplifted hands, but silent thoughts, concluded
her own heartfelt invocation to the God of
bounty, and protection. She felt that she could do
no more, yet much rather would she have followed
her husband into the woods, and dragged him away
from the grasp of the tempter, than knelt that moment
in prayer.

Pickett meanwhile, little dreaming that he was
watched, hurried to the place assigned for meeting
John Hurdis, among the Willows. The emissary
followed close behind him. It was no part of his
plan to leave the former ignorant of his proper quality;
and the first intelligence which he had of his approach,
was the sound of his voice, which sank into
the heart of Pickett like an ice bolt. He shivered and
stopped when he heard it, as if by an instinct. His
will would have prompted him to fly, and leave it

behind forever, but his feet were fastened to the
earth. “What's the matter—why do you come
after me?” he asked.

“I'll go along with you, brother,” said the stranger
coolly in reply.

“As you will, but why? You don't think I'm
running off from you, do you?”

“No!—that you can't do, brother, even if you
would. We have eyes all around us, that suffer no
movement by any of us to be made unseen; and if
you do run, such are our laws, that I should have to
follow you. But I know your business, and wish
for an introduction to your friend.”

“My friend!” exclaimed Pickett in profound astonishment.
“What friend—I know of no friend.”

“Indeed—but you must surely be mistaken; your
memory is confused I see. The friend you're going
to meet. Is he not your friend?”

“I'm going to meet no friend—”

“Surely you are! Brother, you would'nt deceive
me, would you? Didn't I hear the owl's hoot, and
the dog's bark. I wasn't asleep, I tell you. I heard
the signal as well as you.”

“Owl's hootand dog's bark—why, that's no signal
in these parts,” said Pickett, with a feeble attempt
at laughter which failed utterly—“you may hear
owls and dogs all night if you listen to them. We
are wiser than to do that.”

The other replied in graver accents than usual.

“I'm afraid, brother, you are not yet convinced
of the powers of the Mystic Brotherhood, or you
wouldn't suppose me to have been neglectful of the
duties they sent me upon. I tell you, they gave it
to me in charge, to follow you, and to find out who
and what you were—to learn your motives for
killing the youth that we were in pursuit of, and to
take all steps, for making so good a shot, and ready
a hand, one of our own. Do you think I lost sight
of you for a single instant, from that time to this?
Be sure I did not. No! I saw you from the moment
you took your nag from the stunted poplar, where
you fastened him. I marked every footstep you
have taken since. When you stopped at that plantation
and told your friend of your success—”

“Great God!—you didn't hear what we said!”

“Every syllable.—That was a most important
part of my service. I wouldn't have missed a word
or look of that conference.”

Pickett turned full upon the inflexible emissary,
and gazed upon him with eyes of unmixed astonishment
and terror. When he spoke at length it was
in accents of mingled despair and curiosity.

“And wherefore was this important? Of what
use will it be to you, to know that I was working
for another man in this business.”

“It helps us to another member of the Mystic

Brotherhood, my brother. It strengthens our arm
—it increases our resources.—It ripens our strength,
and hastens our plans. He, too, must be one of us!
It is for this, I seek to know him.”

“But there's no need with him?” said Pickett.

“How—no need?”

“He's rich—he's not in want of money, as we
are. Why should he be one of us.”

“To keep what he's got,” said the other coolly.

“But suppose he won't join you.”

“We'll hang him then, my brother. You shall
prove that he was the murderer!”

“The devil you say—but I'll do no such thing.”

“Then, brother, we must hang you both.”

The eyes of Pickett looked the terror that his lips
could not speak; and without farther words, he led
the way to the place of meeting, urging no farther
opposition to a will, before which, his own quailed
in subjection.